


Nothing's Broken

by argylemikewheeler



Series: Tumblr Re-posts [64]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Karen Wheeler, Minor Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, if you really work for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylemikewheeler/pseuds/argylemikewheeler
Summary: Prompt: Mike’s parents finally take him to a therapist and he gets diagnosed with depression and gets proper treatment





	Nothing's Broken

Mike would never admit it beyond the bathroom mirror, but he had been so scared of going with his mother to the doctor. He knew who he was– maybe not _what_  he was on Those Days– and wasn’t sure what a stranger could possibly tell  _him_ about it. But he had no choice: his mother had been given the name of the doctor from a friend of a friend of a cousin or  _something,_ and Mike fell victim to it whether he wanted it or not.

Which he didn’t.

The entire drive there, Mike kept planning all the ways he  _wouldn’t_  cooperate. He’d first start maybe speaking only in the bits of Spanish he’d been learning in school. Or maybe backwards– no, he wasn’t that good at it yet. Then he’d just stare out the window– if the room even had one– and count the number of animal-like clouds he could see.

God, Mike missed old summers. The ones with his best friends and smiles that didn’t feel empty. The happiness Mike could feel without a hollow reminder that given a chance, a half crack made in the joy, and everything could break and he could be Like That again. He could be laying in bed, aching despite not having moved for days. Mike missed being happy in a way that wasn’t an oddity. When his parents wouldn’t be surprised by his laughter or a smile.

Mike’s mother didn’t try and coax him into being pleasant the entire ride up. She just drove and told Mike when they arrived. Mike didn’t try to look polite or even excited as his mom went to the desk to say they arrived for the appointment. Mike sat in his chair and kicked his feet harshly at the carpet.

How dare his mother take him here? She didn’t know what Mike was feeling– how could she ask him to share that with another person? Mike didn’t want to say it to himself half the time. What if someone told him he was crazy? What if they sent him away? Mike would only learn to swallow his heavy, black thoughts further. As if they weren’t already hidden somewhere dark Mike had only recently learned he had.

The doctor came out to get Mike and she  _wasn’t even_ wearing a lab coat. She had a cardigan and blouse on– she looked like a regular person. Mike didn’t trust it, but went anyway. Alone. Her office was small but well decorated. It felt strangely like a classroom, but less of the pressure Mike felt from school.

She asked him questions, too many if Mike was honest, about his daily life. How many days would he say he felt upset or sad– or a word Mike had never heard before–  _depressed._ It sounded harsh. But then again, so were his feelings. He told her the number– out of two weeks, about ten days probably. Like, if he  _had_  to count. She wrote it down but didn’t change her expression.

Mike tried not to give her too much after that. He wanted to avoid her questions, but he felt bad being rude to a woman that was so kind to him. She didn’t ask for any of the gory details. She asked, once, if Mike had ever hurt himself on purpose– even if it was just to stay awake way past his bedtime to make himself tired the next day. Mike never considered being tired a way of hurting himself. It seemed pretty stupid, and he wanted to say as much, until he suddenly started to feel the heavy rings under his eyes. He realized then she was asking questions she already seemed to have the answers to.

Mike wasn’t upset after that. He figured he should have been, but if someone knew his answers, then he was free to finally speak it all out loud. He wasn’t the one giving it away, or blame, if it was already common knowledge between the two of them.

Finally, after an hour, Mike’s mom was called in.

“Karen,” she said, placing her clipboard on her desk. “I know it’s only been one session so I can’t diagnosis him right now with anything for sure, but–”

Mike crossed his legs twice, not sure which way would be the most comfortable to sit when he got turned into a monster. His mother gripped her purse tightly the skin around her nail bed going white.

“I think, Michael– can I call you Michael?”

“No.”

“Mike,” she suddenly redirected her attention to him. “you are showing signs of clinical depression and I think you could benefit from coming here to meet me– or  _any_ of my colleagues– regularly.”

“What does that mean?” Mike’s mother asked, although she sounded more relieved than disappointed.

“It means your son is healthy– it’s just a chemical imbalance in his brain. Your son  _is_ healthy, physically, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“I’m fine.” Mike meant the word in its totality. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”

“Mike,” His mother said firmly. “We both know that isn’t true.”

“Dad says I’m fine!”

“Well, your father doesn’t know you’re here.” She said quietly through clenched teeth.

“W-Why not?” Mike asked, turning to the doctor– she had said to call her Becca; her doctorate wasn’t in medicine.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Mike.” Becca said. “Some people just don’t respond well to the truth.”

Mike bit his lip. “You sound like my friend, Will.”

“Does Will go to a therapist too?”

“Maybe… I think so. But for something different.” Will and Mike definitely spoke about very different things, Mike was sure. Will didn’t sound like he ever stared up at his ceiling at night and felt like it was moments from sinking down onto him– that had literally happened to him, one way or another.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s good to have people in your life that understand– even just the healing process.”

Healing. The word followed Mike home. The entire car ride, Mike couldn’t stop thinking about the concept of him needing to  _heal_  something in him. He didn’t remember ever breaking anything. The alternative was that something in him was  _born_ broken. Or maybe things can break without any pain; they just slowly crack and the pieces drift apart like driftwood at sea. There was no pain in the beginning, but there would be in putting everything back.

That night, Mike tried to slip out of his parents’ sight early and go to bed. His father wasn’t paying attention and his mother nodded sweetly and kissed his head before letting him up the stairs. Mike climbed into bed and curled up with his SuperCom.

“Will? Come in, Will.” Mike said, saying his closing  _over_ after he was sure he’d called his friend enough.

“… Hey, Mike! What’s going on? Why are you using this channel? I have a phone, you know.”

“I wanted to ask you something.” Mike rolled over and put his back to the door.

“Go ahead.” Will said. He sounded cheerful. Mike was envious.

“Do you… go to therapy?” Mike asked slowly, cupping the receiver to his face. The word felt dangerous to let loose in his house.

“I do, yeah. Mom takes me like, bi-weekly now.”

“T-Twice a week!”

“Every two weeks, Michael.”

“Oh… Oh that makes more sense.” Mike sighed and let his head lull into the pillows further. “Does it help?”

“I definitely think so. Makes things quieter, you know? It’s not always rattling in my head. I get to talk to someone. About my nightmares, about stuff with my parents, about Jonathan– sometimes I complain about you too.”

“Hey!” Mike squawked jokingly. He released his button without saying  _over_ , knowing Will would click his button shortly to let him hear his bubbles of laughter. After a moment sitting with the happy static, Mike pressed the button again. “So, you just talk about… whatever you want?”

“Oh, yeah. Whatever is bothering you.” Will said. “Why do you ask?”

“Mom took me today.” Mike sighed, rolling onto his back. “Doctor says– sorry,  _Becca_  says– I’m like, depressed or something.”

Will’s static picked up before he spoke any words; silence he wished to share with Mike. “Are you okay, Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Michael_.”

“I’m going to work on it, okay!” Mike exclaimed. “I’m going back next week.”

“Call me after? Or come over if you want. I can have Mom make a dinner you like. You can sleep over.” Will offered. “It’s not that bad. I promise.”

“I know.” Mike nodded. He had one last question. “Nothing… Nothing’s broken, right, Will?”

“With who, me or you?” Will said, his voice shaking with a laugh. “There’s a big difference. I left this dimension… You’re  _completely_ normal.”

“I am?”

“Cross my heart.” Will said. Mike could practically hear Will moving his finger in an X across his chest. “It’s really going to help, Mike. Trust me.”

“I do.” Mike said. He lifted his finger and cut Will out. “It’s me I don’t.” He clicked it again. “Over and out, Will. I’m pretty tired.”

“Good night, Mike. Over and out.” He answered, clicking off the channel too.

Mike laid in bed, trying to figure out if he had the energy to heal in him. As unpredictable as his moods were, they were vivid to Mike. None of it felt like a dream. They were all incredibly clear and draining. On those days, the ones that made any single thought too overwhelming, healing would be impossible. Eating was too difficult then. But maybe that’s what made talking helpful; Mike finally had an audience with whom he could repeat his bickering brain’s thought. Maybe Becca could make sense of it all. Or at least shut it all up.

Mike knew the word would never be  _healed_. It would constantly be in motion, constantly changing and growing, and maybe that was encouraging too? There was no race– he was going to be like this for a long time. It wasn’t like slapping glue on two snapped pieces, it was a rebuilding of something out of shifting parts that never intended to go together. He’d have to reintroduce different parts of himself to the New and  _Improved_ Mike Wheeler: the one that heals and cares and speaks and shares and maybe, just maybe,  _loves_.

It sounded far off, but so did ever speaking his own hidden truths. But he did that today, didn’t he? Healing might have been continuous, but it also meant to be active. Just thinking about it was a bit of progress. A bit of a reward to throwing his hands up to his darkest days, but grabbing onto that small bit of light he found in his life– and maybe choosing to call every once in a while before bed.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Rebloggable Post!](https://argylemikewheeler.tumblr.com/post/185522359605/if-you-like-is-prompt-or-not-thats-okay-prompt)


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